Wrong Place, Wrong Time
by clarissafrench
Summary: When an FBI case unknowingly intersects with an NCIS case, Don Eppes finds himself in the middle of the action without a chance to take cover.
1. Chapter 1

Note: Spoilers for Backscatter, Counterfeit Reality. Thanks to WriterJC for the beta read.

What surprised Don the most was how cold he felt. It was Southern California, after all, but that's what two days in the dark on a cement floor will do to you. At least there was enough room to stretch out on the floor, and he was lucky enough to have his hands tied in front and not in back. His head and knee were still throbbing, and the plastic tie around his hands chafed.

Lifting his bound hands to his face, he rubbed his eyes. He'd thought about it over and over—Why did those thugs attack him? Why was he here? Could he have gotten away if he'd tried harder? They hadn't been that chatty, so here he was, stuck in the dark—both literally and figuratively. It's not like he had much else to do but relive Friday night in his head. An escape was next to impossible. His knee was definitely out of commission if it came to running, and after two days with no food and little water, he wasn't sure he had the energy even if he could get past the locked door.

He let out a deep breath, thinking about the three men who had jumped him outside the grocery store. It had been a long, busy week. They'd been hard at work on a case, and as usual, he hadn't eaten or slept properly in days. All he'd wanted was a frozen pizza and some beer, but what he got was a hard right hook across the cheek, a hefty punch in the gut and a kick in the knee. He'd swung back, but they were on him from all sides, much too quickly to pull his gun or do anything but go on the defensive.

Another blow across the back of his shoulders had brought him down to the pavement, and a kick in the ribs had left him gasping for breath long enough for them to pull him into the back of a white painter's van. They'd known what they were doing and quickly had his hands bound and his eyes blindfolded. The van started moving, and he kept struggling with the two thugs left in back with him until he felt a large hand press a wet cloth in his face, and the chemical smell made the sounds and motion blur until everything went dark.

When he woke up in the dark, he wasn't sure how long he'd been out. Even now, he wasn't really sure, but he was guessing it had been a few days since they'd grabbed him. A few times they had opened the door and thrown a bottle of water at him, but otherwise, he'd been left to his own thoughts. His stomach wasn't sure how to react—half the time, it was lurching from the pain of his injuries, and the other half, it was gurgling with hunger.

Did anyone even know he was missing? Certainly if he'd been called in for a case they did, and if it was Monday, someone would notice his absence. But otherwise, he couldn't be sure. He didn't have plans with his dad or Charlie for the weekend. It wasn't unusual for him to hole up in his apartment with some beer and old movies after a long week, just to recharge for the stack of cases waiting for him the next week. The thought of having dinner with his dad and Charlie had swung his stomach back to hunger.

He opened his eyes into the blackness of the room and listened to the sounds outside the door. It wasn't strictly true that his captors weren't talkative—but they weren't talking to him, and they weren't speaking English. If he had to guess, Don would put his money on Russian. He wasn't dead or maimed too badly, so they probably weren't pals with Koverchenko, but they certainly didn't have anything good in mind for him. But what? What were they waiting for? He could hear them now, talking quickly in low voices.

Their voices suddenly quieted down, and Don heard a new voice join the conversation—louder, but still in Russian. Thug One said something, and the new guy's voice got louder and angrier. Thug One responded in a cajoling tone. They went back and forth, and then Don heard footsteps approaching his door. It swung open, and the dark room filled with bright light. It hurt his eyes after so much darkness, and he squinted to block it. A hand grabbed him by the back of his belt and hauled him upright, slamming him slightly against the doorframe. He nearly collapsed at the pain of putting his weight on his injured knee.

Thug Two gave him a shove in the back, and he stumbled forward, hissing and wincing at the pain. As his eyes adjusted, he saw Thugs One and Three standing next to a metal folding chair. It wasn't that far of a walk, although the fire radiating in his knee made it feel much longer. Another shove sent him tumbling toward the chair, and he barely managed to hit the seat without falling to the floor.

In the full light of the large room, Don realized just how swollen his left cheek must be, as it pushed the bottom of his eye closed. He looked up at his surroundings. The room was huge and fairly empty, some kind of storage area. Thugs Two and Three stood on either side of him, while Thug One continued to talk with the fourth man. The newcomer had a buzz-cut of brown hair, hard blue eyes and wore a tailored suit and silk tie that said he wasn't hurting financially. He was a stark contrast to Don's grungy captors. Another man, bald and well-built, lurked in the shadows behind the man in the suit.

The man in the suit looked at him with a penetrating stare, then said something angrily in Russian to Thug One. Thug One replied, still in Russian, gesturing toward him. The lilt of his voice reminded Don of a slick car salesman trying to convince someone a car wasn't a lemon. With so little information to anchor him, Don almost felt like he was just an observer, watching something happen to someone else.

Then, he was back in the moment as the man in the suit turned to him and said in heavily-accented English, "What is the address of the Los Angeles FBI office?"

That was the last thing Don was expecting to hear, and his brain stalled for a moment in confusion. It wasn't secret or classified information—it was publicly available, so why were they asking him? Thug One waved, and Thug Two stepped forward and landed a blow at Don's stomach. Don groaned in pain as Thug One loomed over him and said, "Answer him."

Breathlessly, Don choked out, "450 South Bixel Street."

The man in the suit nodded to Thug One, and they stepped away to talk. Don watched as the man in the suit handed his silver briefcase to Thug One, and he caught a glimpse of cash inside when Thug One opened it. Now would be a good time to suddenly understand Russian, but Don had a sinking feeling he knew what was going on anyway. _Out of the frying pan and into the fire_ , he thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Callen and Sam sat in the black SUV outside the one-story office building. The paint on the outside was peeling, and a few of the windows were cracked. Weeds grew in-between the panels of sidewalk in front, and the place looked deserted.

"Well it looks like the perfect cover for a weapons dealer," said Sam.

"Nothing says, 'There's no suspicious activity here' like that cozy abandoned look," said Callen. He looked over at Sam. "You ready?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You have to ask?"

Callen nodded and spoke into his comm. "Kensi, Deeks, you ready with SWAT?"

Kensi's voice came back into their earwigs. "All set."

"Remember, wait until I've done the deal and left the building. We want him to think this deal is real," Callen said.

"You going to rhyme everything today, G?" Sam asked, a sparkle of mischief in his eye.

"I might, just to amuse you," Callen said dryly.

They got out of the car, and Callen smoothed his blue silk tie and pulled his gray suit jacket straight. Walking inside, they could see three men lounging in the shadows, talking. One with a cocky smile and gang tattoos up and down his arms was sitting in a rusty folding chair. Spotting the two men, he got up and walked toward them.

"You are Nikolai?" he asked in Russian.

"That's me. Who are you?" Callen responded in Russian.

"I am Sergei," he said. "These are my associates, Alexei and Ivan."

Sam stayed a few feet behind Callen, playing bodyguard.

"Great. Now that we've met the whole family, let's do business."

Sergei developed a slightly pained look, and some of the self-assured confidence slipped from his face. "Well, there is just one small… change in our deal."

Callen raised his voice. "Change? What do you mean change? We agreed on the four crates of M-16s, and that's what I'm here to get."

Sergei adopted a lower, wheedling tone. "I think that when you see what I have to offer, it will be more than fine as a substitution."

"This is not Wal-Mart. This is not a swap meet. I want what I came for." Callen was yelling now, playing the part of an angry Russian mobster.

"What I have is worth more than your M-16s, and I will give it to you for the same price. Trust me."

"Trust you? You're the one pulling a switch at the last minute."

"I see I will have to show you." Sergei nodded at Alexei, who walked over to a small door near the back of the large, empty room.

Alexei stepped through the doorway and quickly came out, yanking a battered-looking man along with him. His face was swollen along the left side, and a few streaks of blood ran along his head, disappearing into his dark hair. Bound in front of him, his hands were secured with black plastic zip ties, and he appeared to be limping. The man seemed disoriented, but Alexei was showing no mercy. As the man stumbled, Alexei shoved him in the back, causing the man to hiss and cry out in pain. Another shove from Alexei almost made him fall on the floor in front of them, but he managed to collapse into the folding chair instead.

Alexei and Ivan stood on either side of him, while Sergei looked back at Callen. Callen stared at the man, taking in his injuries and obvious pain. Then, back in character, he looked straight into Sergei's eyes and snapped, "You call one beat-up man an even trade for those M-16s?"

Sergei waved a hand in the man's direction. "This man is a high-ranking federal agent. He can give you details of security plans for the city in case of various attacks and probably other information as well. I will give him to you for the price of the guns, but if you want us to extract the information for you, it will be extra."

The gleam in Sergei's eye as he said this told Callen that he'd enjoy every minute of earning his "bonus".

Callen responded, "How do I know he's really a federal agent, that you aren't selling me a fake?"

Sergei shrugged. "Test him. Ask him whatever you like."

Callen's mind whirred like an engine turbine. He needed to ask something that most people wouldn't know but a federal agent probably would. It couldn't be something that gave away his own knowledge of classified projects. Decided, he shifted his gaze to the man and said in Russian-accented English, "What is the address of the Los Angeles FBI office?"

Whatever the man was expecting him to say, it wasn't that. He looked so surprised and confused that Callen started to think maybe he didn't know. Sergei waved, and Alexei stepped forward and punched the man in the gut. The man let out a yell of pain. Sergei leaned over him and said in English, "Answer him."

Gasping for air, the man managed to speak. "450 South Bixel Street."

Callen nodded. It wasn't a perfect test, but it made the story more likely. Even without the guns, they could bust this crew for assault, battery, kidnapping and, if their claims were true, kidnapping of a federal agent. He tilted his head to the side, indicating for Sergei to step to the side with him. They walked closer to the opposite wall.

"We'll see if he's worth what you say," Callen said, continuing in Russian. "If he's not, I will come back to collect my original merchandise."

"He's the real thing. You'll be satisfied," Sergei said.

Callen handed the silver briefcase of cash he'd brought to Sergei, and Sergei undid the clasps, opening it. Stack of bills—marked in case something went haywire—sat in the case. Sergei nodded and closed it.

"Pleasure doing business," Sergei said. He motioned to Alexei and Ivan. Ivan pushed the man off the chair and into a standing position.

The man winced in pain again, but kept his mouth firmly shut, clearly trying to hide his agony. With another shove from Alexei, the man stumbled forward, toward Callen and Sam. Sam stepped up, grabbing the man by his upper arm. The three men walked the 15 feet to the door, the injured man limping slowly the whole way. Leaving the building, they swiftly turned a corner. The sudden switch in direction left the man stumbling, and he fell to the ground.

Sam leaned over, and grabbed the back of the man's pants. He could feel the man's muscles stiffen in anticipation of a possible beating, but Sam just pulled him up and over his shoulder to carry the man to the car. Hurrying to the SUV, Sam unloaded the man into the back seat. As he pulled out a knife to cut the man's bonds, Callen spoke into his comm in his normal voice.

"Kensi, Deeks. We have a wounded man. Give us 30 seconds to clear the area, then go in with SWAT. You got it?"

"Got it," said Deeks' voice in his earwig.

"Good to go," said Kensi.

The man had unconsciously pulled back from Sam when he saw the knife, but then seemed distracted by Callen's words—and his lack of a Russian accent.

His eyes widened as he looked at Callen and Sam. "Good guys?" he whispered hoarsely. He leaned forward to say something else but banged his injured leg in the process. With a yelp, the man collapsed into the seat, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Sam pushed the man further into the back seat as Callen jumped into the passenger side. Taking his place in the driver's seat, Sam started the car and sped off down the street. In the distance, they could hear the sound of rifle fire coming from the office building.


	3. Chapter 3

The hospital was busy. People streamed down the hallways, going from one department to another. Monitors beeped out patients' heart rates and respiration. Kensi and Deeks walked down a long hallway to a small single room. Callen and Sam, still in their cover clothes, stood outside the door.

Deeks peeked through the window panel by the door. A bruised and battered man lay quietly in the bed. His right leg was covered in a knee brace and elevated. Butterfly bandages sealed cuts on his face, and white bandages encircled his chest.

He whistled low. "What were they doing to him?"

Callen looked serious. "Nothing good. They were selling him as an intelligence resource. I'm not sure if he's the real deal or someone they just picked up, hoping to make a quick buck."

Shaking his head, Callen said, "He passed out as we got him in the car, and he hasn't woken up since. It's probably better that way for now. The doctor said that in addition to the bruising on his face and hands, he's got a badly sprained knee, a couple of cracked ribs and a concussion. They think his body just collapsed from the pain and some pretty significant dehydration."

Sam looked at Kensi and Deeks. "Since he hasn't woken up, we don't know who he is or why our Russian gang grabbed him. They told G that he's a federal agent, but we haven't confirmed it."

"So what's our next move?" Kensi asked.

"He has someone on him 24/7, one of us," said Sam. "We don't know who he is or who else might be looking for him. We didn't want to draw the wrong attention, so he's registered here as Nell's brother, Jack Jones, instead of being a John Doe. Eric drew up some pretty convincing paperwork to back us up."

Looking at Kensi, Callen said, "You've got the first watch. No one comes in here but medical staff and us. Deeks, you're with us. It's time to learn a little more from our Russian friends and find out what happened to that weapons shipment."

The three men walked down the hallway, and Kensi stepped inside the room and pulled up a chair.

* * *

A/N: Please tell me how you're liking the story. I'd love to hear what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

Warm. He was warm, too warm to still be in the dark room with the cold concrete floor. Everything around him felt soft. What had happened? Don tried to remember, to think back, but everything was so hazy. His thoughts jumbled around, and nothing seemed to connect. He shifted his left hand experimentally. His right hand didn't move with it. Good. His hands weren't bound anymore. If he could only get up, he might be able to escape now. His limbs felt heavy, and he couldn't muster enough energy to even sit up.

After a few tries, he managed to open his eyes. Everything looked fuzzy, but he definitely was somewhere different than before. But where? Squinting, he saw computer monitors with different numbers and one with a dipping and rising line—wait. A heart monitor. He was in a hospital. Turning his head slightly, he saw someone sitting in a chair near his bed. The fuzzy haze made it hard to see the details, but it looked like—"'Mita? What're you doing here?" he slurred. "Where's Charlie?"

The Amita-shaped blob shifted and came closer to him. "How are you feeling?"

He felt a silly grin stretch across his face. "Not feelin' much of anything right now."

"I'll bet. What do you remember?"

He furrowed his brow and frowned. Something wasn't right. "'Mita you sound… different. What's going on?"

She spoke in a soothing tone. "It's OK. You're OK. Do you know what happened to you?"

His thoughts spun, out of control, with a blur of sounds and images, but still, nothing connected.

"No. Where's Charlie? He's not in the garage, is he?"

She faltered. "The garage?"

"Yeah." Don could feel his eyelids drooping, and he continued to slur as he faded, "Make him promise. No P versus P. Promise."

She didn't answer right away, and the hazy fog thickened, until everything went dark.

Even with whatever medications were coursing through his veins, his mind was active, if not purposeful. The dreams were full of action and pain, light and dark, but nothing made sense. Charlie was there, writing equations on his blackboards, but it was like he didn't see Don. The more furiously he scribbled, the more chalk dust flew into the air.

Then a burst of pain changed the scene, and he was in a parking lot, defending himself against three assailants. He swung and connected with someone's bone, but they did the same to him. He kept swinging, but it was like his feet were stuck in quicksand. He sank deeper and deeper into the floor and the assailants kept up there attack.

Just when his head was about to sink below the surface, he was somewhere else again. The office. He was going through files, looking at potential suspects, he rummaged through the mug shots. Suddenly, a face with piercing blue eyes and a buzz-cut was staring up at him. The person in the mugshot reached through the photo to pull him in. He was speaking to Don in a foreign language, and Don couldn't understand. Then, everything mercifully got darker, and the dreams stopped.


	5. Chapter 5

Happy Halloween! Hope this chapter's a treat, not a trick, for you.

* * *

Kensi watched the man sleep. Callen was right—it was probably better that he was unconscious with his painful injuries. Still, who was he? Why try and substitute him for the M-16s Callen was set to buy? It seemed like a radical change, but maybe these guys were desperate. She looked at her watch. Only 11 a.m. This was turning out to be one heck of a Monday morning. A sound by the bed snapped her attention back to the man. He was moving a hand. She started to get up as he turned his head and mumbled.

"Mia? What're you doing here? Where's Charlie?"

Maybe he was confused. She stepped closer and asked softly, "How are you feeling?"

The man looked like a happy drunk as he smiled, declaring, "Not feelin' much of anything right now."

It almost felt like she was talking with Deeks. Kensi smiled as she said, "I'll bet. What do you remember?"

As she spoke, the man's manner changed. He shifted in the bed, agitated. "Mia, you sound… different. What's going on?"

Clearly he thought she was someone else, but who? Girlfriend? Sister? It didn't really matter. He didn't seem lucid enough for the full story on what had happened. "It's OK. You're OK. Do you know what happened to you?"

Her soft tone did nothing to soothe him, and she could see panic arising in his eyes. "No. Where's Charlie? He's not in the garage, is he?"

"The garage?" The office space hadn't had a garage, and no one there was called Charlie. Clearly it was important, and he thought she'd know what he meant.

"Yeah." His eyes were already closing, and his words turned into a soft mumble. "Make him promise. No P versus P. Promise."

Kensi paused, and when she looked back up at him, he was already asleep. As she turned to head back to her chair, there was soft knock, and the door opened. It was Deeks.

"Hey, Kensilina. Shift change."

She smiled at his goofiness. "He woke up for a minute just now."

"Really? Great. What did he say? Do we have a name yet?"

"No," she sighed. "He thought I was someone named Mia, and he kept asking about someone else named Charlie. He didn't seem that coherent."

Deeks put his hand on her shoulder. "Well, I'm on guard duty now. You might see if Eric can do anything with those names."

She gave him a small smile, nodded and headed out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: A lot of the action on both sides is happening simultaneously, so we're still on Monday morning here.

* * *

The office was busy, with phones ringing, agents moving from one room to the next and a briefing happening in the conference room. At Don's desk, however, things were absolutely quiet.

Megan glanced over for the fifth time that morning, wondering where Don was and why he was so late. Then she caught David's eye, as he was watching Don's workspace too.

"Have you called him?" she asked.

David nodded. "Twice. Goes straight to voicemail. You?"

She frowned. "Yeah, same for me. I'm starting to worry. I mean this is Don we're talking about. He's basically married to this job. He's never late, and certainly not by two hours."

"Think we should call Charlie? Maybe he had some emergency and needed Don."

Megan shook her head slightly. "I think he would have called to let us know. But calling Charlie's not a bad idea… I just don't want him to get worried if it turns out to be nothing."

"Yeah, but if it _is_ something, we might need him."

"Why don't you stop by Don's apartment—see if his alarm just didn't go off or something—and I'll swing by Cal-Sci and talk with Charlie," she said.

Walking over to Colby's desk, she tapped his shoulder, and he looked up. "Hey Colby, could you activate the tracker on Don's SUV?"

"You got it," he said with a nod.

* * *

As Megan stepped into Charlie's office, she smiled, in spite of her worry. The clutter, the giant jar of gumballs, and the genius furiously scribbling at the blackboard—it was a comfortable space for her. Charlie was absorbed in his work and didn't appear to notice he had company.

She cleared her throat, and Charlie turned around, bringing a small plume of chalk dust with him.

"Oh hey, Megan," he said with a smile. "What's up? Looking for Larry?"

Shaking her head, she stepped toward him. "No, I'm looking for Don."

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Don? Isn't he at the FBI?"

"He didn't show up for work this morning, and we can't get him on the phone. We thought he might be with you. When's the last time you saw him?"

Charlie sat down at his desk and dropped the piece of chalk he'd been holding.

"Um… I saw him on Wednesday, I think, when he stopped by for those calculations on likely hiding places for your suspect in the fraud case," he said.

He paused, his eyes wide with concern. "Do you think something happened to him?"

"We don't really know," said Megan. "He was in the office late on Friday with the rest of us, closing out the paperwork for that case, but I don't know if anyone saw him over the weekend. What about your dad? Could he be with Don?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, he's on some camping trip with his old high school buddies. They're trying to prove that they're not too ancient to rough it."

Megan's phone rang.

"Hey David, did you check his apartment?"

She paused. "Uh-huh. OK. I'll meet you there."

"What is it? Did he find Don?"

"Uh, not yet, Charlie. Right now, it's still a little too early to think something's really wrong. He probably just had car trouble or something." She walked toward the door. "I promise I will call you as soon as we've figured out what's going on."

As she walked out, Charlie stared at the door. Megan said it was no big deal, but something in Charlie's gut said more was going on than a flat tire. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he closed his eyes and started to analyze the facts he had.

* * *

Megan pulled up to the grocery store and found David and Colby waiting in the parking lot, next to Don's SUV.

Colby motioned to the car. "There's no damage I can see here, but I checked with the store manager, and he said it's been parked here since at least Saturday morning. He was off on Friday, but he's getting us Friday and Saturday's security tapes for the parking lot."

Megan nodded. "I'll get a tow truck from evidence response to come bring this in."

The manager walked out of the store and handed a few discs to Colby.

"I can get on these right away," Colby said to Megan.

"Why don't you and David go back to the office, and start reviewing these, and let me know if you find anything. I'll wait here for the tow truck and meet up with you later."


	7. Chapter 7

"So, we know that Don left the office at 7 p.m. on Friday, so let's start there," Colby said, tapping a few keys on the computer.

The silent black and white movie of surveillance footage played on the screen as they watched, looking for Don's car to pull in to the spot.

"Now _that's_ not a good idea," said Colby, pointing to a small child walking next to his mother, carrying what appeared to be a glass jar of pickles from the store. "Let's time it. Three, two…"

The child stumbled, and the jar crashed to the ground, shattering.

David couldn't resist a small smile. "OK, next one's mine."

A group of teenagers walked into the market, all whispering with each other.

"Ten dollars says they walk out really disappointed with some soda."

Colby shook his head. "That's a sucker bet, man. Not taking it."

The teenagers came out of the store, just as David predicted, and he gently slugged Colby on the shoulder. "Told you. I called it."

"Yeah, man. I know." Colby studied the screen again. "Let's speed it up, see if we can get there quicker."

He tapped a few more keys. The figures on the surveillance tape jumped into action, scurrying back and forth across the screen.

"Stop," said David. "That's him pulling in right there."

With another tap, Colby slowed down the footage, and they watch in real time as the SUV parked and turned its lights off. Another vehicle, a white painter's van, quickly pulled in one spot over from the SUV. Three men jumped out and hurried toward the SUV as the driver's side door opened. Don stepped out, looking down for a moment as he tucked his keys into his pocket.

Colby shook his head. "I don't like this."

Don looked up, just as one man swung a punch, connecting with the left side of his face. Swinging back, Don was clearly targeting the guy's solar plexus, but a punch to his gut from the second man threw off his aim. He kicked out at the second assailant, only to get kicked hard in the knee by the third man. The first man, recovered from Don's punch, brought down his fists hard across the back of Don's shoulders, and Don fell to the ground.

Colby and David stared at the tape, transfixed but horrified.

"And this was _Friday_ ," murmured David. "If he didn't report it…"

On the screen, the second man gave Don a swift kick in the ribs before he and the first man dragged him over to the white van, pulled him inside and shut the door. The third man ran around to the driver's side, and the van lurched recklessly out of the parking lot.

"Colby, call it in to dispatch and make it official, then call Megan. I'm going to see if I can get the plates from the van," said David.

Nodding seriously, Colby stepped back to his desk and started dialing. A few minutes of rewinding, fast forwarding and freeze-framing later, David had the plates. On a hunch, he picked up the phone and dialed LAPD.

"This is Agent Sinclair of the FBI, badge number 4021. I need to check a license plate number against your reported stolen vehicles list." He paused. "Yes, are you ready? Four alpha lima oscar seven one nine." Another moment passed. "I see. Would you put out a BOLO on it for your officers? Thank you."

Hanging up the phone, he walked over to Colby's desk.

Colby looked up at him. "Megan's on her way in. All agents are on alert to report anything possibly related, and I asked tech to grab traffic camera footage and try to follow the van through traffic. Uh-oh."

"What?"

"Charlie's here. You want to take it or should I?"

David pursed his lips. "I'll talk to him. You stay on top of any leads we get."

He strode toward the elevator as Charlie walked toward him and met right at the edge of the cubicles.

"Hi Charlie. What brings you down here?"

Charlie looked at him straight in the eye. "I know something's going on with Don. Megan said it might be nothing, but I've just got a feeling."

David nodded. "We weren't sure when Megan stopped by your office, but now we are." He started walking to the conference room, and Charlie followed. "I'm going to give you all the facts here, but I'm not sure we have anything for you to apply your math to just yet."

David pulled up a chair at the table and motioned for Charlie to join him. "This morning, when Don didn't show up at the office, we were a little concerned. We tried his cell, but it's turned off, so we split up to check his apartment and your office to see if he was there."

Charlie was nodding. "Megan came to see me, and she said maybe Don had car trouble."

"That was our next step when we didn't find him—finding his car. Because it's an FBI vehicle, it has a tracker inside, and we were able to locate it parked at a grocery store not far from Don's apartment. There was no damage to the car, but it had been parked there for several days." David paused. "We got the parking lot surveillance tapes and found Don there on Friday night."

Seeing David's grave expression, Charlie took a deep breath. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"It's not good. I don't want to scare you, Charlie, but we have video of three men beating Don up and taking off with him in their van."

Charlie grasped the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles turned white. "Do we know—do we know where they took him? Or who they were? Or why?"

David shook his head. "This video was from Friday, and we just realized what happened less than an hour ago. So far, we've got Don's car, but I'm not sure that his attackers ever touched it, so its evidence value is limited. Right now, our only leads are the surveillance footage and the van they used for their getaway."

Charlie was nodding, then he leaned his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his face in his hands. "I want to help. I have to help," he said in a shaky voice. "I don't suppose—"

Reaching out, David clasped Charlie's shoulder firmly. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to watch the tape, Charlie. It was hard enough for us to see it."

Charlie looked up, one hand still pressed against his forehead. "It's too late for a normal search pattern. What data do we have?"

"I have techs looking for the path of the van in traffic cam footage now, and we're running the surveillance footage through facial recognition, but without knowing more about who they are and why they grabbed Don… we're doing the best we can."

"I know. I know," Charlie said softly. "I need to be part of this. I can't let Don down. He'll be counting on you, on me, on all of us. I just need to think. I know I can come up with something."

David stood up and patted Charlie on the back. "OK. Do you want me to call Amita or Larry to come help you?"

Charlie shook his head. "Amita's subbing for another professor at a conference in Toronto, and Larry's supposed to be in San Diego for the day at a physics meeting."

"What about your dad?"

"He's camping and pretty much unreachable for two more days. I don't even know precisely where they were going."

Nodding, David said, "I'm going to check on our progress out there, but let me know if you come up with anything. I'll get you any facts and figures we've got." Patting Charlie's shoulder again, he walked out.

As he stepped toward his desk, Colby caught his eye.

"I've put out an alert to all the local hospital for Don or any John Does matching his description, but so far, no one's got anything. And LAPD called. One of their beat cops found the van parked on a side street with no occupants," Colby said. "They're holding the scene for us, but the cop who looked inside said there was blood in the back."


	8. Chapter 8

Eric shifted uncomfortably in his chair in the operations center as he typed. Finally, he stopped typing. "Standing right behind me isn't going to make these results come any quicker, you know."

Kensi glared. "It's our only lead, Eric. It's all we have until he wakes up again. Isn't there anything?"

He turned around to look at her. "Not so far. I mean, the criteria are pretty broad—any missing persons report on a white male with dark hair, 30s or 40s, filed by someone named Mia or Charlie? We don't even know it would be from L.A. County, so I'm checking all the surrounding ones as well."

Kensi leaned against the table. "What about our Russians from the office space?"

"One died at the scene. The other two are in custody. All we have on them are first names—Sergei and Ivan. I'm running them through facial rec now. Deeks tried them earlier, and they're not talking, but Callen and Sam want you to give it a try with Ivan."

"Why haven't they got in on the action?"

Eric adjusted his glasses. "Well, since the guns are still potentially in play, Callen didn't want to blow the identities they set up. As far as the Russians know, Callen—or 'Nikolai'—was lucky enough to finish his deal with them and get out before we attacked." He looked up at her nervously. "Maybe you could blow this energy breaking him instead of burning holes in my back with those glares?"

Kensi almost glared at him again, but he was right. And breaking Ivan would make her feel better.

* * *

When Kensi walked in, Callen and Sam were standing in the main room of the boatshed, watching Ivan stew in the interrogation room, via the monitors.

"So, fill me in. What's going on?"

"What did Deeks tell you?" asked Callen, turning away from the monitor.

"Nothing, but Eric mentioned that our Russian friends weren't talking, and you're maintaining your cover."

"That's pretty much where we are," said Sam. "I think this guy's more afraid of Sergei than he is of us."

Kensi looked back at Callen, a sparkle in her eye. "What if we bring someone in who might scare him just as much?"

Callen caught her gaze and nodded. "I think Nikolai could come back for an encore without exposing us."

* * *

Kensi stepped into the interrogation room and sat across from Ivan. He didn't look up to see her.

"Ivan. Anything to say?" Nothing. It was as if she hadn't said a word. He didn't look at her, didn't respond.

"I see. Well, I have someone else who might talk. Why don't I leave you two to get acquainted?"

She stood and walked out for only a moment before returning with another man in handcuffs. Pushing him down into the seat she had occupied a moment earlier, she hooked his handcuffs to a metal ring on the table.

"We already know what you two did—we just want to know why." She left the room, closing the door forcefully behind her.

Ivan waited a few moments, then glanced up. When he saw the man in the rumpled suit and wrinkled silk tie, he blanched.

"It's… you," he said in Russian, his voice quivering.

Callen leaned forward and replied in Russian. "Yeah, it's me. Now thanks to Sergei and his sloppy work, the cops are all over me."

"Did—did they find the guy, the one Sergei had for you?"

Callen nodded. "I tried to tell them it was Sergei's plan, his idea, but they want someone who will confirm my story. Seems they don't trust me." A cocky grin appeared on his face and disappeared a moment later as he glanced around the interrogation room. "If you flip on Sergei too, we'll both get a reduced sentence. If not… well, I have friends who will make sure your prison stay is memorable."

He could see the sweat forming on Ivan's brow and the small tremors in his fingers as he tapped the table, almost imperceptibly.

"OK, OK. I'll tell them."

Yelling in Russian-accented English, Callen said, "He's ready to tell you I was right."

Kensi walked in and stared stonily at Ivan. "All right, Ivan. Talk."

Ivan tapped harder on the table for a moment, then looked up at Kensi. "We were never going to grab the man. We are strictly selling guns," he said in heavily-accented English. "We go to the place to pick them up, and there are men everywhere in uniforms. Police of some kind. We could not get them, but we also could not have nothing for Nikolai when he came to collect. Sergei says we follow this man, the man who seems to be in charge of the other police."

He looked back down at the table. "I did not know what Sergei was going to do. We follow this man for two days, and we see him stop at the store on Friday. He looks tired, and Sergei says it is lucky break. We follow his lead. We think he is just putting his anger on this man, and we will leave. But he tells us the man is coming with us, and he will be our product to sell instead of guns."

"See? I told you," crowed Callen to Kensi.

"He's not done yet, Nikolai," Kensi said coldly to Callen. "Who is he, Ivan? Who is the man you grabbed?"

Ivan shook his head. "I do not know. Sergei seems to know. We take his cash and throw away his wallet. Sergei sells the gun."

"Where did you pick him up? What store?"

"It was the Johnson's Fresh Market. We leave his car there. A black SUV."

Kensi nodded. "OK. But if I find out the two of you are lying…"

"We are not. But you must keep Sergei away from me. If he knows, he will kill me," Ivan said.

Leaning over, she unhooked Callen's handcuffs from the table. "OK, Nikolai. You come with me. Sit tight, Ivan."

* * *

Callen and Sam stood in the parking lot of Johnson's Fresh Market.

"No black SUVs here," said Sam.

"They said they grabbed the guy on Friday. Maybe the store had the car towed already," Callen said.

They walked into the store and asked for a manager. A young man wearing a button-down shirt and tie approached them after a few minutes.

"I'm the assistant manager. How can I help you?"

Pulling his badge from his pocket, Sam held it up and said, "NCIS. We need to see the surveillance footage of your parking lot from Friday night."

The man squinted at them and tilted his head quizzically. "I'm sorry, but the police already took it."

"Which police?" asked Callen.

"Um, I'm not really sure. I wasn't on shift yet when they came in. My boss was, but he's already finished and gone home for the day. All I know is that it was something about a missing person." He shrugged. "Sorry. Maybe you can ask the other police to share?"

The loudspeaker broadcast a call for a manager at one of the registers, and he smiled. "Duty calls. Sorry I couldn't help."

Turning to leave, Callen looked at Sam. "Well, clearly someone is looking for our guy."

"Yeah, but he called them police, then he called us police. It could be LAPD or any one of a dozen agencies."

Callen raised an eyebrow. "So just who is this guy?"


	9. Chapter 9

Charlie paced in front of a whiteboard, occasionally stopping to look through the file of scant facts and figures. A few scribbles decorated the board, but without the data he craved, there wasn't much more he could do. Knowing that only made him scribble more, then erase, then pace again.

Colby sat at his desk, phone glued to his ear, while David sat with technicians trying to follow the van's path in traffic. Megan also was on the phone, and when she hung up, she walked over to the tech room and motioned for David to join her in the corridor.

"So evidence response is checking the van for prints and running the blood from the back, but I just got a call from Matt in the tech department. He was able to isolate one of the men's faces from the surveillance and identify it with a facial rec program," she said.

"And?" asked David. "Who is he?"

"Sergei Drezna, a Russian national with quite the rap sheet." She held up a print-out. "We've got smuggling heroin, gun running and counterfeiting."

"Let me see," Davis said. He scanned the paper, then looked up suddenly. "He worked in Eddie Zakarian's print shop?"

"Yeah," She nodded. "Why? What's that mean to you?"

"It was before you joined the team. We busted a group of counterfeiters who had kidnapped an artist to make her draw their new fakes. The ringleader was Zakarian's son. Zakarian himself was a longtime counterfeiter, and he was in on it too. We busted all of them—me, Don and Terry, the profiler you replaced.

"So you think it could be a revenge thing?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. It depends on his loyalty to Zakarian. It's been a few years since they worked together, so who knows? But it's not like we're overwhelmed with leads right now."

"Where's Zakarian now?"

"He's up in Victorville. I could drive out and talk to him."

Megan nodded. "Do it. It could be nothing, but it's worth checking out."

David grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and headed for the door. Walking over to the conference room, Megan peeked in for a look at Charlie. His frustrated pacing had slowed, and it looked like he was earnestly working on something.

"Hey, Charlie. How's it going?"

He finished scribbling the line was working on, then looked up. "I'm working out probabilities of where they might have taken him, given the known abduction site, the dump site and the time interval between the security videos of both locations. We know the traffic patterns during that time, and there was a major accident on the 101 at that time and construction on 210 that limits the scope of where they could have gone."

"That sounds like progress," Megan said. "You feeling OK? I know this is tough for you."

He shook his head. "I'm fine. I just have to compartmentalize how I feel and put that aside until we find Don."

Megan bit her lip. "I'm not so sure that's healthy. Actually, it sounds more like something your brother would do."

"But it's working. I've already narrowed down our search area to a five-mile square part of the city."

"Great work, Charlie, but that's a lot of ground in a big city."

"I know." He grimaced.

"Charlie, I mean it. That's great work. Send me a copy of that area, and I'll have LAPD increase patrols there."

He gave a half-smile. "Thanks." Charlie turned back to the whiteboard as Megan walked out of the room.

As she stepped out into the main office, Colby was walking toward her.

"Hey, so I just spoke with an admitting nurse at Huntington Memorial, and she said that someone fitting Don's description had come in but under another name. She looked into the file, and there was some weird stuff going on with his paperwork."

"How weird are we talking?" Megan asked, eyebrows raised.

"None of his documents was an original, not even the insurance card, and his 'sister' who sent the paperwork couldn't tell them anything about medical history or allergies. The nurse said it all looked legal, but she just had a feeling about it." He paused. "The guy's still there, so I'm heading over there to check it out. Want to come?"

She pursed her lips. "I want to, but I really need to be here to coordinate. David went to question a prisoner at Victorville about a possible connection, and Charlie's working on a possible location. But call me as soon as you have something."

Colby nodded. "You got it."


	10. Chapter 10

As he approached the desk at the inpatient admitting department of Huntington Memorial Hospital, Colby felt a little nervous. It wasn't a feeling he was used to or all that comfortable noticing. Being stoic was a strength he'd learned in the army, and he'd needed it many times since he'd joined the FBI.

If this guy the nurse had talked about was Don, then everything would probably be all right. If he wasn't… well, the leads were pretty thin on the ground. The idea of going back to the FBI and telling Charlie this didn't pan out… He didn't even want to think about it.

Looking over the desk, he addressed the man sitting behind it. "I'm looking for Nurse Keegan. Is she around?"

The man nodded. "Just a moment." He picked up his desk phone, pressed a button and broadcast over the loudspeaker. "Nurse Keegan, please report to admitting desk one. Nurse Keegan, admitting desk one."

Within 30 seconds, a woman in purple scrubs with a coppery brown ponytail was heading for the desk. "I'm Irene Keegan. Can I help you?" she asked Colby.

"Yes. Special Agent Colby Granger, FBI. We spoke on the phone?"

"Of course." She looked at him seriously. "There's an empty exam room right over here where we can talk."

They walked over to the room and stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind them.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions about the patient you mentioned to me."

She held up a hand. "Before you ask, I really can't reveal any details of his medical condition without his consent."

"OK. I get that," said Colby. "But I'm looking for a missing FBI agent. We know he was beaten, abducted and held for several days. The man we're looking for would have injuries that fit that story. But what tipped you off about this man?"

"He was admitted in a strange way. He didn't come in by ambulance. Two men brought him in, but all the documentation was faxed in—even before he arrived—by his sister," she said. "He's had someone visiting him constantly, though not always the same person, since he was admitted this morning, but his sister hasn't come in, even though the address she gave us was local. And then you called around with that description."

She stopped for a moment. "Do you have a photo? That would be the easiest way."

"Sure," said Colby. He pulled out a copy of Don's FBI ID badge. "Is this the man you saw today?"

She squinted at the photo. "Yes, I think so. You can go on up and confirm. He's in the trauma unit, room 1108. It's up one floor and to the right when you get off the elevator."

* * *

Deeks was just getting up to stretch his legs when a well-built man with a holster at his hip approached the door to the room. He stepped forward to block the man from entering. "Sorry, I can't let you in there."

"Like hell." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. "Special Agent Colby Granger, FBI. I'm going in."

He began to push past the man, but Deeks pushed back, then held up his own badge.

"Detective Marty Deeks, LAPD. I can't let you in there."

Colby sighed in frustration. "Look, I don't know what your orders are, but I'm pretty sure my boss is in there, and I need to see that it's him. *His family* would like to know it's him," he said pointedly.

Deeks held up a hand. "I'm not here to have a jurisdictional dispute, but the man in that room is under our protection. What I'm going to suggest is that you let me have my people check your ID before I let you in."

Nodding reluctantly, Colby said, "OK."

Deeks pulled the door to the room shut as he walked into the hallway and stepped a few feet away. Pulling out his phone, he speed-dialed Eric in Ops.

"Eric, it's Deeks. I have an FBI agent here, claiming that our mystery man is his boss. Can you check his ID?"

"No sweat. What's the name?"

"Special Agent Colby Granger."

Deeks could hear Eric's fingers tapping quickly over the keys. "OK. Special Agent Colby Granger. Grew up in Idaho. Former Army intelligence, did a tour in Afghanistan. Now works in the Los Angeles office of the FBI. He's been there a little more than a year, working on the violent crimes squad."

"What's he look like?"

"Umm… square-jawed football player, light brown hair. I wouldn't want to get in his way. I'll send a photo to your phone."

"Good. Send it, and hang on for a second." Deeks turned back toward Colby. "What's your boss' name?"

"Special Agent Don Eppes."

Deeks turned away again. "Eric, also run Special Agent Don Eppes for me."

"You got it. Let's see." He trailed off for a moment. "Special Agent Don Eppes. Native of Pasadena. Worked in fugitive recovery and ran the FBI's Albuquerque office before transferring to Los Angeles. Currently violent crimes squad supervisor, and wow! He's got, like, a totally awesome case closure rate. And… he's listed by the FBI as missing."

"Send me his photo, too, would ya?"

"Both of 'em coming at you now."

Deeks hung up the call and looked through his text messages. As promised, there were two photos. One was very definitely the man in front of him. The other, well, it was a pretty good guess this is what their mystery man looked like when his face wasn't swollen and bruised. He looked up to see Colby Granger also on his phone, talking. Deeks caught his eye and nodded.

"Go ahead and bring him down, Megan. I'm about to go in and see Don."

He kept talking for a few moments, and Deeks used the opportunity to call Callen.

"Hey, Callen. I've got the FBI here, and I think we have a positive ID on our mystery man. Eric can give you the lowdown, but he's a missing FBI agent." Deeks looked up again and saw that Colby had finished his conversation and was glaring at him to move out of the way.

"Look, I have to go, but you might want to see where the cases intersect."


	11. Chapter 11

The fog was lifting, and slowly, he could feel twinges of pain. There were voices all around him, but they sounded muffled. It was as if he was swimming underwater, and everyone else was at the side of the pool. Was there a party? Did he get drunk at a party and not remember it?

Then a familiar voice cut through the blunt sounds. Charlie. Why was Charlie here? Charlie sounded like he was on the other side of the water, too. Don couldn't make out any of the words, but Charlie sounded sad. It almost sounded like he was pleading with someone. Was a bully after Charlie? Surely he didn't have to defend his brother from the neighborhood bully anymore.

Don tried to focus on the sound of Charlie's voice.

"…sorry…can't believe…didn't notice…three days…forgive…"

As he focused, the layers of fog in his head began to peel back, one by one, each revealing a new memory or making a new connection. The parking lot. The dark room. The Russian man who wasn't Russian. The hospital.

Wait, the hospital? Suddenly, Charlie's sadness made sense. If he was in the hospital, and he wasn't telling Charlie to stop being so down… Charlie must be afraid for him. The weight next to him meant Charlie was leaning on the edge of what must be a hospital bed. Every limb felt like it weighed a ton, and more aches began to creep down throughout his body, but Don felt a surge of determination. Time to wake up.

His throat felt like sandpaper, dry and scratchy, but he forced the words out before he could even get his eyes open. "Don't cry…Chuck. Nobody...likes…a soggy pillow."

The words were barely more than a whisper, but he could feel Charlie freeze, and he knew the sound was loud enough.

"Don? Don, can you hear me?"

The other noises in the room quieted down. Don managed to crack his eyes open, just a little. "How am I supposed to sleep with a party going on in here?"

"You're OK," said Charlie, with a sigh of relief.

Don opened his eyes a little more, then blinked a few times as everything came into focus. Charlie was sitting at his bedside, eyes shining, while Colby and Megan stood next to him. Two unfamiliar men stood on his other side.

"What's going on?" Don zeroed in on one of the men. "Wait. I know you. You're the Russian who isn't Russian? Did I dream that?"

"No," said the man with a small smile. "The Russian who's not Russian. That should be my code name. Agent Callen, NCIS."

"NCIS? How'd you get involved?"

"Don't forget LAPD over there," said Colby, nodding toward the other unfamiliar man.

The man stepped forward. "Detective Deeks. And I am with LAPD, but I work with NCIS, so it's not _that_ weird."

Don started to shake his head, then stopped as the motion send a wave a pain through the left side of his face. Each new revelation was leaving him more and more confused. He turned to Charlie. "Hey buddy, can you raise this thing up? I'm starting to feel like Dorothy at the end of The Wizard of Oz. _You_ were there, and _you_ were there."

Colby snorted.

Charlie found the button, and the top of the bed rose slowly. Now feeling more on even footing with his visitors, Don looked over at Colby. "So, what? I remember what happened to me, but I still don't know why. All this started Friday night—what's today?"

"It's Monday, Don. And it turns out, it didn't start Friday night. It started on Wednesday when we busted that guy, Krasno, for illegal imports and fraudulent goods, and we found those crates of M-16s," Colby said.

"Krasno? But we closed that case. We had plenty of evidence on him."

"Evidence on the other stuff in his warehouse, yeah, but what we didn't know is that he didn't import the guns," Colby said.

Callen jumped in. "He had a deal with a crooked contractor to smuggle them out of Seal Beach and already had a weapons dealer ready to collect them. The FBI's bust messed up their plans."

Don nodded. "OK, but I still don't understand how our bust led to this whole other thing."

"While we were taking all the merchandise out and bringing it in as evidence, the weapons dealers cruised by the scene and saw you in charge," said Colby. "Apparently, they felt that if they couldn't give their buyer the guns, they better give him something valuable—the guy in charge of busting his guns."

Holding up a hand, Don said, "So wait, that's why they grabbed me?"

"But what they didn't know is that I was their buyer," said Callen. "We'd set it up to bust them selling me the M-16s, but instead, we got them on kidnapping a federal agent. And since they were trying to promote you as an intelligence asset for us on the city's defensive weaknesses…"

"We got them on terrorism charges, too," finished Deeks.

Charlie reached over and laid his hand on top of Don's. "I'm so sorry, Don. I didn't even know anything was wrong until this morning. I tried to find you, but there just wasn't enough data yet. But Colby found you, here in the hospital."

Looking at Charlie, Don said, "But if I was in the hospital, why didn't they call you?"

Deeks answered. "Hey man, we didn't know who you were. We knew Sergei claimed you were a federal agent, but whether it was true and what agency… we couldn't be sure. We were trying to figure it out, but Callen only did the deal with Sergei this morning."

The wheels were turning inside Don's head. "Then why was Amita here when I woke up earlier?"

Now it was Charlie's turn to look confused. "Amita? Don, Amita's been in Toronto since last Tuesday. Just how good are those drugs? Should I be worried that you're dreaming about Amita?"

"I wasn't dreaming, buddy. She was here."

"Um, actually…" said Deeks, looking a little sheepish.

Both brothers turned to look at him.

"I think between the drugs and everything else, you might have mistaken my partner for this girl. When I came to switch out guard duty with her, she said you woke up and called her Mia. But it's all good."

"Yeah. It is," said Charlie, looking back at Don. "You're safe and in one piece." Looking to Don's battered face and bandaged knee, he added, "Well mostly."

"Hey, that's not real helpful, Charlie." Don mock-frowned at Charlie.

Charlie stood up and raised his hands. "OK, but just wait until dad gets back. He'll have a lot more to say than that."

"We can't convince him I just fell down the stairs or something, can we?" Don asked, cringing.

"Good luck with that one, bro."

* * *

 _A/N: Just the epilogue left! Stay tuned._


	12. Chapter 12

_Thanks again to WriterJC for her beta read of this story._

* * *

The world was warm—and soft. Don cracked his right eye open, just a slit and observed his surroundings. He was alone, finally. Someone had draped a blanket over him while he'd been sleeping. Opening his eye a little more, he glanced at the coffee table. The remote was nowhere in sight. No good. However, Charlie's laptop was easily within his reach.

Opening both eyes, he eased himself up into a sitting position and steadied himself. With his right knee elevated on a mountain of pillows, it was no easy task. Equilibrium restored, he reached over and grabbed the laptop. Flipping it on, he quickly logged in. He really should have a talk with Charlie about that password—MathConvergence314 isn't the most secure password when you work with a whole school full of math geniuses. But that could wait until _he_ was done using Charlie's computer.

Logging into his secure FBI email, he spotted the one he wanted. Clicking it open, he downloaded the attachment and began to read. It wasn't as good as an FBI file, but it would do. He'd have to thank Agent Callen for the reading material. He was so engrossed in reading the case notes that he didn't even notice he had company until he heard the sound of a throat clearing.

He looked up to his dad standing there, holding a tray with a steaming bowl atop it.

"I thought Megan said you were on medical leave this week, and she wasn't going to send you any files to go through," said Alan, with a disapproving tone.

Don squirmed inwardly but smiled. "Well, she didn't, Dad."

"Oh really? I suppose you're just reading box scores, then?"

"Look, there's nothing that prevents other agencies from sending me things."

"Uh-huh."

Don glanced back at the tray. "Dad, you know chicken soup can't heal a sprained knee or cracked ribs, right?"

"It's not going to hurt them either. Does your brother know you hacked into his computer?" Alan raised an eyebrow as he set the tray on the coffee table.

"It's not exactly hacking if you know the password, Dad. Besides, I'm not snooping in his stuff. I might accidentally learn some math that way."

Don could hear light footsteps behind him.

"Who might learn math?" asked Charlie.

"Your brother might if he gets bored enough. I think he's on the verge of reading your lesson plans."

Charlie looked at the computer in Don's lap.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Just staying on top of developments in the case. Agent Callen was kind enough to keep me in the loop—and you guys aren't going to talk him out of that."

"Don, you have the culprits. You know they're going to be charged. Why can't you just rest?"

"Says the man who spent all night generating a cloud of chalk dust in the garage," Don said.

"That's different," said Charlie, crossing his arms.

"Really? I don't think so."

Alan raised his voice. "Boys, come on. Don, give the computer back to Charlie. Charlie, you could use a break, too. Why don't we all watch the game? The Dodgers are playing the Rockies."

"Great idea, Dad. How about some beer to go with the game?" Don asked hopefully.

"Not a chance. But if you finish the soup, we can talk about some peanuts and popcorn."

Alan sat down in a chair as Charlie tilted the TV more toward the couch, turned it on, then settled on the floor, leaning back against the couch. As a fly ball sailed over the foul line and into the crowd, Don looked around him at his dad and brother. If he had to be stuck somewhere for a week, this was the place to be—even if he'd never admit it to anyone else.

* * *

 _I hope you all enjoyed this adventure!_


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